Marty's
by Midnight Caller
Summary: Say what you want about New York, but you can't beat the food."


Marty's

By Midnight Caller

Disclaimer: Considering what happens most of the time when I get a hold of these guys, I can't understand why they always run back to Hank... but he does own them, so I guess they're attached.  Sigh.  Oh, well.  

Rated: PG

Spoilers: not really

Summary: "Say what you want about New York, but you can't beat the food."  

A/N: Big thank you to the lovely Eolivet for the cheerleading and beta read, and to Maple Street, where everyone sort of knows everyone and lots of fic happens.  :)  

*****

The last down stroke of the "e" stretched out toward the edge of the paper, and she smiled down at her own name, tapping the pen against the table.  She glanced back over the pages, her smile broadening by the time she returned to the sight of her signature at the bottom of the last piece of paper.  

She finally stood and looked around the office, seeing only a few remaining lights spilling out from some cubicles.  Faintly, a telephone rang, down the hall from the bullpen, and she suddenly realized she was pretty much alone in the office.  She glanced at the clock, rubbed her eyes, and then walked toward the double glass doors behind her.  

He had also just completed the last down stroke of his "e," though the novelty of the event had long since passed years ago for him.  He stared at his name and sighed heavily, adding the paper to a stack about four inches high on the corner of his desk.  It was during this most recent exhale that she knocked lightly and then entered, her smile still evident on her lips.  

He noticed her expression with some degree of bemusement, though he had a faint idea as to its origins.  

As he took the folder from her hands, he remarked, "So, how's it feel, Samantha?  Your first missing persons case.  Signed, sealed, and delivered."  He smiled and signed his own name under hers, peering up over his glasses to see her response.          

"It feels... good," she replied, unable to contain her excitement.  "I just never thought signing my name to something would make me so ... content."  

A smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth.  "It'll get old soon enough," he said wryly, gesturing to his mountain of paperwork. 

She considered that briefly before quietly adding, "I hope not."  

Silence settled over the office for a moment as their eyes met in a surprisingly bold stare.  Eventually the intensity of his gaze made her look away, and her eyes landed on the bureau behind his desk.  

"Are those your daughters?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

He blinked, finally disengaging his eyes from hers, and then glanced over his shoulder and smiled at the picture of himself holding a small child as a toddler looked up toward him.  "Yeah.  Hanna and Kate.  Kate just turned one last month.  Hanna's three."  

"They're adorable."  Her sentiment was genuine, but she smiled as if something below the surface was begging to be shown instead.  

"They take after me."    

His deadpan delivery fooled her only for a moment before she broke into a light laugh.  "Well... I should probably get going."  She gestured toward the door.  

He nodded in agreement, but after watching her take the few steps from the desk to the glass, he twisted around his mouth slightly before finally deciding on something.  

"Samantha."  

It was more of a statement than a request, but she stopped and turned toward him.  He avoided direct contact with her eyes as he continued, "You want to go grab something to eat?  I didn't get much of a dinner tonight."                 

Her face relaxed, and she nodded.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I would."     

Since the place he suggested was only about six blocks away, they decided to walk from the Bureau, and their conversation was quiet, often falling into pockets of comfortable silences as they strolled down the sidewalk.  Once or twice she brushed against him while stepping out of the way of another pedestrian, catching his eyes for the brief second they were pressed together.    

Like most restaurants in New York, the façade of this one consisted of a small overhang denoting the name of the place and its address, but no other visible signs.  

She glanced up at the name, saying it aloud.  "Marty's."

He paused at the door, opening it for her.  "Yep."  

Peering at the menu they had displayed next to the door, she grimaced.  "Jack, this place looks expensive."  

"Then don't order the lobster," he countered with a smirk.

"That's not what I meant," she said quietly, shoving her hands in her pockets.  

He studied her for a moment before taking a step toward her, still holding the door.  "You just solved your first case, Agent Spade; it's on me.  The Bureau pays me enough to cover a meal or two."  

She swore he winked as she stepped by him to enter the pub.

Once inside, she stood for a moment, taking in the atmosphere.  The lights were low enough to dissuade shyness, but not so dark that it induced sleep or squinting in order to see.  A long mirror stretched behind the bar on the left, and along the wall on the right, making the place look a lot larger than it was, and several small tables and booths were scattered about the room.  Jazz played lightly in the background, and while the place wasn't abandoned, it wasn't crowded enough to be filled with raucous laughter or yelling from those who didn't know when to put down the bottle.  

"This is nice," she said, just as she felt his hand on her back, guiding her toward a booth in the corner.  

"Yeah, I used to come here a lot."  He tugged on her shoulders until she shrugged off her coat.  

"What changed?"  She sat down and then watched him hang both their coats on the hook above their booth.  He slid in on his side, the leather creaking under his weight as he slid closer to where she was sitting.  They both realized the booth was deceptively small as their knees brushed briefly.  

"Well, this isn't exactly the kind of place you bring kids," he replied, glancing around for a waitress.  

"Or a wife."  

His head snapped back around and he stared at her, his mind screaming with the infinite amount of implications embedded in her short statement.  

She swallowed, and then silently sighed out of relief when a waiter broke the suddenly tense air between them.  

He handed out two menus and then asked, "Can I start you folks off with a drink?"  

Jack glanced at Sam, who shrugged lightly.  "I'll have a scotch -- on the rocks, please.  And the lady will have a glass of Merlot."  

The waiter nodded and went to retrieve their drinks.  Sam hadn't taken her eyes off Jack since he ordered, and he finally reciprocated her stare.  

"Was that too presumptuous?" he asked, in a way that implied he didn't think it was.  

She licked her lips and looked down at the table.  "Not really, I just ... I just wonder how you knew I liked that wine."  

He waited a moment before answering, "Everyone likes Merlot."  

She raised an eyebrow, her eyes sparkling somewhat.  "That's a rather broad generalization, Agent Malone."    

"Right," he nodded, a smirk crossing his features, and then looked down at his menu.  "Your ex-husband prefers Budweiser."  

He didn't have to look up to know she was boring a hole in his head with her stare.  But finally, he raised his eyes.

Her breathing was heavier, her face flushed, and yet neither factor wavered his gaze.  "That was more than a little presumptuous," she said, though he could tell she was more shocked and intrigued than angry.

"Probably," he shrugged, popping a peanut in his mouth from a dish on the table.  

The waiter returned with their drinks.  "So what can I get you guys?"  

Jack watched her skim the page.  "Sam?"  

"Why don't you order, Jack?  I trust your judgment."  

He raised an eyebrow and then looked at the waiter.  "I'll have the veal, easy on the lemon butter, please.  And she'll have the chicken."  The waiter nodded and left them alone again.  

Sam absently twirled a fork between two of her fingers, and Jack cleared his throat.  His eyes met hers as he made his next request.  "Tell me about him."  

She looked away and was about to open her mouth in protest when she brought her eyes back toward him.  His attention was unnerving, but not entirely unpleasant, and she silently thanked the low lights as a blush rose up her cheeks.  She licked her lips, took another sip of wine, and then dropped the fork, intertwining her fingers on the table.  

"Fine."  She tried to ignore his smile as she continued, "What do you want to know?"  

He bit down on another nut.  "How'd you two meet?"  

She sat back in the booth, exhaling through her nose.  She bit her lip, slowly releasing it.  "He lived down the street from my parents.  We dated in high school."  

"Cheerleader?"  

"No.  Why would you assume that?"  

He suppressed a smirk.  "Sorry."  Maybe the scotch urged him on.  "You were probably too busy sneaking out in the middle of the night for a few beers, right?"  

She wanted to tell him where he could shove his profiling, but she couldn't stifle the smile that overtook her mouth.  "Maybe."  

His smirk broke through.  "Uh-huh."  

"Is there anything _else_ you want to know?" She leaned toward him, realizing he wasn't as far away as she thought.      

He swallowed another gulp of scotch and nodded.  "Yeah.  I want to know how a small town married girl ends up a divorced Special Agent in the FBI in New York City."    

She practically guffawed.  "Oh, that's all?"  

He set down his glass, and stared her down as she finished her sip of wine.  It wasn't that the darkness in his eyes made her uncomfortable or was unnerving in its intensity, but she worried about what he would see in her own gaze, if her thoughts would betray her.  

Looking away, she inhaled and then let her breath out slowly through her teeth.  "Well, let's see... what can I tell you that you haven't already read in my confidential personal file?"  

If he was fazed by her comment, it didn't show.  The corner of his mouth turned up but he kept his eyes on her, patiently waiting.  

She tried again, inhaling and then exhaling, looking at the table and then re-crossing her fingers.  Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the atmosphere, or maybe it was the situation, but whatever it was, she stopped herself from speaking, and turned to face him.  As much as she tried to be serious, she couldn't stop the grin.  "Why do you want to know?"

He shrugged.  "I'm curious."  

She raised an eyebrow.  "Your curiosity makes you prod your agents for personal back story?"

"I just like to know who's on my team, Sam, that's all."  

The waiter returned with their food and finally broke Jack's stare, and he sat back against the booth, setting his napkin in his lap.  She had half a chicken on her plate, surrounded by a medley of steamed vegetables and garnishes.  His veal looked delectable, the sauce slowly spreading over the paleness of the meat before dripping onto the plate below.  Steam rose up to mingle with the thick air of their conversation, and she leaned forward to savor the combined aromas.  

Before she even reached for her fork, she realized the waiter had refilled her Merlot and Jack's scotch.  One drink was still appropriate, she told herself, even though they were technically on their second—

"It actually does taste as good as it looks," his voice interrupted, and she looked up just in time to see him pull his fork from his mouth and gesture to her plate.  He closed his eyes and smiled, swallowing the rest of his bite.  "Say what you want about New York, but you can't beat the food."  

She smiled and then finally cut a piece, quickly joining him in his verbal praise of the meal as the flavors hit her tongue and swirled around in her mouth.  

"So do you still trust my judgment?" he asked, indicating the food, and she swore he winked.  Again.  Rather than thinking about it further, she nodded and then took another sip of wine.  

They were both hungrier than they thought, the consumption delaying their conversation on account of their appetites.  

He glanced over at her a few times, watching her small town appetite fight against her big city manners, hunger sparring with etiquette and proper dining procedure.  When she caught him watching her, he blurted out, "You ought to try some of this."  Her eyes fell to his plate, where his fork waited, laden with a piece of sauce-covered veal.  "C'mon, it's delicious."      

She finished chewing and then nodded an acceptance, swallowing down her chicken as he passed her his fork, their fingers brushing slightly in the exchange.  Her lips wrapped around the fork and the flavors enveloped her tongue, engorging her taste buds until they felt almost swollen with the savor of the dish.  

His eyes followed her closely, and she tipped her head to him, moaning her approval.  As the fork slipped from her mouth, she couldn't help but realize his lips had been on the tines as well, and she quickly smothered the smile that erupted from the thought of tasting him.  

He took the utensil from her fingers and stabbed another piece.  "You almost eloped, I bet."

"Excuse me?" she asked, her mouth half-full of food.  

"You and ... what's-his-name.  I bet you almost eloped.  But you probably felt guilty about not inviting your mother to your wedding, so you told her, and although your father probably didn't approve of you marrying so young, they helped you throw together a small ceremony in the backyard."  He sliced another piece of veal and popped it in his mouth.  

She blinked a few times but kept her composure with another sip of wine.  "Maybe."  

He pointed his fork at her, swallowing down his most recent bite.  "What I can't figure out, though, is if you got married to get out of that town, or to stay."  

She tilted her head, amused by his theories, but refused to answer.    

"It was probably good for at least a little while, right?  Newlyweds... young love... romance, all that good stuff."  

She pushed a carrot around on her plate with her fork.  "Well, everyone has at least one good day, but I'm sure you know more about that than me."

He shrugged slightly before eating a piece of asparagus.  "Sometimes it just doesn't work out," he remarked quietly.    

She almost laughed.  "You could say that."  She raised her eyes to his, but after a beat, he looked down to his glass of scotch, and then picked it up for another gulp.  "You know... you can try and tell me you didn't read the file... but I know you at least peeked."  

He smirked and set down the glass.  "Still... there's a lot they don't put in those things."  

She wiped her mouth with her napkin.  "Like?"  

He licked his lips and ran his finger along the top of his glass.  Hesitating for just a moment, he lowered his voice and asked, "What went wrong?"  

He was surprised she just hadn't walked out, but maybe she wasn't used to getting this kind of attention.  She absently fingered a lock of hair with one hand and pouted her lips, appearing either defiant or deep in thought, or maybe a little of both.  

Just as he was about to apologize, he saw her mouth open and heard an accompanying intake of air.  "I don't really know.  I guess... I guess we just wanted different things out of life.  I don't think you really know what you want when you're 18.  You think you do, you know?  Or maybe you just realize it's more about what you need than what you want."

He nodded, letting his mind drift.  "Yeah."  

Leaning an elbow on the table, she rested her chin on her hand, tilting her head until their eyes connected.  "How about you?  What did you want when you were 18?"

He laughed lightly.  "I wanted to be anywhere but Georgia."  Off her look, he explained, "I was stuck in basic at Fort Benning.  Bugs, mud, and heat.  And that was the winter."

After a chuckle, she remarked, "I don't think I would have ever pictured you as an Army man."  

"That's 'cause I'm not."  

She waited a few seconds before asking, "So what happened?"

He shifted in his seat, trying to phrase the answer in his head.  "Well, after two years, the Army had given me all it had to offer."  She didn't seem to detect the distant bitterness in his voice.  

"So you just decided to... join the FBI..." She punctuated her question with a raised eyebrow, to which he responded with one of his own.  

"I thought _I_ was conducting this interview."  

She leaned toward him, lips pursed.  "Mmm... how about that."   

They were suddenly much closer than when they had started that night, their legs practically touching on the long seat of the booth, his arm resting on the back of the seat behind her head.  She could smell his aftershave, now mixed with the strong tang of scotch and just a touch of lemon butter, and wondered for a brief moment why it was suddenly so incredibly hot in the room.

"Check," she squeaked, and he furrowed his brow.  She swallowed and then repeated, "Check," nodding toward the table where the waiter had recently deposited the slip of paper.  

Jack blinked, breaking his gaze, and then picked up the check, reaching for the wallet in his jacket pocket.  

"Thanks for dinner," she said softly.

Their eyes connected for a moment before a smirk slowly crept across his lips.  He threw more than enough cash on the table and stood.  "My pleasure.  Plus it's tax deductible."  

Before she could protest, he was holding out her coat for her, so she shut her mouth and climbed out of the booth, turning her back to him as she slipped her arms into the sleeves.  She turned and met his eyes as he put on his own coat, and then stopped to reciprocate his stare.

"Ready?" he finally asked after a long pause.

She nodded, slowly, and then briefly shut her eyes when his hand pressed against her back, leading her out of the restaurant.  

As they stepped out the door, the chilly night air stung at her wine-warmed skin, and she shivered, pulling her collar up around her neck.  

"Cold?"  

She jumped at his voice, so close behind her, and then shook her head.  "I'm okay."  

He nodded and then looked to his left, then his right, his breath leaving his mouth in a huff of fog as he released a few long exhales.  "So listen, I—"

"I think I'm going to—"

They both stopped, smiling at their concurrent interruptions.  He lifted his chin.  "You first."  

She jerked her thumb behind her, hoping she didn't sound as affected by the drink as she felt.  "I think I'm going to head back toward the office... I sometimes have a better time catching a cab at this time of night down there..."  

"Good idea," he remarked, and yet neither one of them showed a sign of leaving, until he took a step toward her.  "I'll walk with you."  When she gave him a look of slight indignation, he held up his hands and quickly added, "I know you could kick the ass of anyone who messed with you; I'm actually worried about me."  

Her lips twisted in protest against forming a smile, and she turned toward their building, hearing the shuffle of his feet as he caught up to her.  

Most of their walk was in silence, the sounds of the city providing the soundtrack to their relatively short journey, their eyes meeting occasionally as they waited for the lights to change.    

As a breeze picked up, the air grew colder and she involuntarily felt her body drift closer to his, seeking warmth.  By the end of the fifth block, she was lightly pressed against him, and by the end of block six, his body was pressing right back.  And as they stood there, one taxi after another passing by, it became clear that unless one of them made a move, this night was going to end much different than originally intended.  

"Sam, I... " Jack started, his voice low, and then he glanced up as he spotted a couple heading toward them on the sidewalk.  They both instinctively stepped apart, waiting until they were alone again before looking at one another.

"I should get going," he resigned, letting out a slow breath.   

She leaned toward him, a small smile playing across her lips.  "Wouldn't want your wife to get suspicious."

He nodded, chuckling lightly.  "Right."  Their eyes locked again for a moment before she turned toward the street, her arm stretching out as she spotted a cab.  

"Sam," he called, and she looked back over her shoulder.  A second passed before he added, "I hope it never gets old for you."     

When her brow knitted in confusion, he raised his hand, holding a pretend pen as he briefly signed the air.  

The gesture made her smile, and she reluctantly stepped into the taxi that had pulled up alongside the curb.  At the last second, she turned her head, her eyes catching his.  "'Night, Jack."  The door closed and the car sped away, leaving him alone on the sidewalk.  

Taking in a breath of air, he spun quickly, his hand raised as he released a short, piercing whistle at a passing cab.  He took one last look around before he climbed in and shut the door. 

(fin.)


End file.
